The Best Laid Plans....
by HP Fan four
Summary: This is the first chapter of a funnier version of what REALLY happened the night Harry got his scar.
1. Wormtail's betrayal

On the night of Halloween 1986, two figures Apparated onto a deserted graveyard outside the Riddle House. They couldn't have been more different to each other. One was tall, the other was quite short. The tall one was thin and bony, the short one was round-faced and chubby. The tall, thin, bony one had the air of deadly seriousness about him, the short round-faced chubby one was stuffing his face with a jam doughnut. The tall, thin, bony deadly serious one was shrewd and cunning, the short, round-faced, chubby one, stuffing his face with a jam doughnut was downright stupid. This Laurel and Hardy type pair did share one thing in common - they both got each other's names wrong.   
"Turnwail?" said the cold, high voice of the tall, thin, bony deadly serious, shrewd, cunning man.  
"Fold-a-snort?" came the squeaky voice of the short, round-faced, chubby, face stuffed with jam doughnut, downright stupid one, slightly muffled through a jumble of crumbs and jam.  
"The name," said the first man coldly, "is Voldemort. Lord Voldemort. However, you shall address me as 'my Lord,' or 'master.' Is that clear, Firm-snail?"  
"The name," said the second man, "is Wormtail. However, you shall address me as........well, Wormtail will do just fine."  
"Hmmmm, Wormtail," said Voldemort, thoughtfully. "Well, you know what I'm like remembering new names. And you haven't been a Death Eater long, have you?"  
"Nope," replied Wormtail. "Two weeks last month, to be precise. Hang on, that can't be right. Let's see, if Nicholas Flamel turned six hundred and forty two last Monday, and tonight's the 31st, and the fifteenth was on a Tuesday...."  
"Silence," hissed Voldemort, and Wormtail buried his face in the Dunkin' Doughnut again. "You said you had valuable information for me, Burn-stale?"  
"It's Wormtail, my Lord. And yes, I have."  
"Well, bagel-brain, what is it?" snapped Voldemort, finding himself fighting an increasingly powerful urge to transfigure his new follower into an under-ripe watermelon.   
"The Potters have made me their Secret-Keeper. I have their whereabouts written here on this parchment."  
He handed the piece of parchment to Voldemort, who read it carefully before slipping it into his robes.   
"Very well, Churn-ale..."  
"Wormtail."  
"...you have been of some use. You shall be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams."  
Wormtail choked on the chocolate filling of his doughnut. "what reward is that, my Lord?"  
"A reward granted only to the courageous and brainy" ("that's me all right!" squeaked Wormtail, dancing up and down) "Beats me why I'm giving it to you, but here you go, anyway."  
Voldemort held out his bony white hand, and handed Wormtail and rectangular piece of card.  
Wormtail shrieked with delight, spraying his master with jam and crumbs. "THE Pokemon Trading Card! Oh, thank you, master! Oh, thank you ever so much! Master is too kind. Master is so generous. I is lucky to be serving Master."  
"Stop talking like a house-elf!" snapped Voldemort, regretting he had recruited Wormtail in the first place.  
Wormtail continued to goggle at his prize, squeaking his thanks so loudly that from a small run-down cottage outside the Riddle House, Frank Bryce poked his head out of the window, and waving his walking-stick furiously, threatened to set the Royal Air Force on him if he didn't stop his "brutal noise-pollution." Then, muttering darkly about young people today, and pesky rock-bands influencing them, he slammed the window shut and disappeared form view.   
Wormtail, deaf to all this, and oblivious to the way his wails of gratitude diminished his master's patience stocks to their minimum, soon found himself at the tip of a wand. A split second later, Wormtail the cauliflower sat on the soft earth still marveling at his trophy.  
Voldemort rolled his eyes and Disapparated.   
  
  



	2. 

  
Miles away from all of this evil, terror, doughnut crumbs and human-originated vegetables, the Potter family sat comfortably on the couch in front of their living room fire, watching Muggle television and keeping an eye on their one-year-old son, Harry. Harry threw the toy wand he was holding a resentful look. Who needed a wand that did nothing but emit bubbles, shoot sparks and squirt warm milk, when inches away from him, in both his parents' belts were wands that could turn coffee tables into elephants, clear blocked drainpipes and conjure gigantic teddy bears that gave poor, tuneless excuses for the national anthem when you cuddle them? Harry had made several attempts to snatch one of these real wands all evening, but kept getting caught, due to the fact that every time his hand touched a wand, it started whistling like a cheerful Sneakoscope.   
A loud rap on the front door made two of the Potters jump and one of them drop his wand, which began spraying the room with warm milk. Harry stuck his tongue out at his wand, and it desisted.   
James Potter, meanwhile, opened the front door. The figure standing in the doorway was concealed by shadows, but James had a pretty clear idea of who it was.  
"Lily!" he called to his wife, sarcasm growing in his voice. "Guess who's taken the trouble to pay us a visit on a stormy Halloween night."  
"Hagrid?" Lily Potter called back from the living room. "Albus?"  
"No," replied James, in mock disappointment. "It's only Voldie."  
"What?"  
Lily Apparated next to James, clutching Harry tightly.  
"The name," came the cold, high voice of someone tall, thin, bony, deadly serious, shrewd and cunning from the doorway. "is Voldemort. Lord Voldemort. However, you shall address me as..."  
But Lily cut him across, shrill and panicky "What are you doing here at this time of night? And on Halloween of all nights?"  
Voldemort opened his mouth to answer, but James interrupted him.  
"Oh, Lily, isn't it obvious?" he replied, smiling at her. "What does anyone do at this time of night on Halloween? Voldie's trick or treating! Just don't outgrow some thing, eh, Voldie?"  
"It's Voldemort," snapped Voldemort, sounding distinctly disgruntled.   
"Well, I think we've got some stuff we can spare for an overgrown baby like yourself, eh, Lily?" James gave her a meaningful wink and nodded towards the kitchen. "You know - something we've saved especially....."  
"Oh, right," grinned Lily, catching on. She Disapparated and reappeared with a sackful of what looked like glue-covered rocks.  
"There you go, Voldie," grinned James, handing him the sack.  
"The name is Voldemort!" shouted the man who was unfortunate enough to own that ugly name. "Vol-de-mort! V- O- D - L - E - hang on, that can't be right..." He clenched his fists in fury and took a steadying breath. He would have calmed down had Harry not chosen that precise moment to yell "Troll-a-goat!"  
Voldemort took a deep breath then hopped up and down, spitting with rage. "CAN'T ANYONE GET MY NAME RIGHT????!"  
"Nope," replied James. "And apparently, you can't either."  
At this, the Dark Lord resembled a red-faced, bony Pogo stick screaming like a baby Mandrake and throwing a tremendous tantrum, reminded James and Lily of their one-year-old nephew, Dudley. James took advantage of Voldemort's childish and highly exaggerated display of all-too-short nerves to shout over the cacophony "Why don't you try some of this fantastic - er - food we've brought you, Voldie?", and rammed one of the super-glue coated pebbles in his guest's already open mouth.  
"Yes, nice, aren't they?" smiled Lily, as Voldemort's now suddenly closed mouth emitted the crunching noises of shattering teeth and his eyes began to water. "Generously donated by our good pal, Rubeus Hagrid."  
Voldemort would have thrown another tantrum had he been able to free his jaws and what remained of his teeth from the tangle of solid brick, cement and baking soda which was currently melting the roof of his mouth. He let out some desperate squeals as he tried fruitlessly to speak. He pulled out his wand and tried levering his mouth open with it.  
No one was aware that Harry had taken full advantage of the chaos to make his first successful grab for a real wand which was now clenched tightly in his tiny fist. He muttered some words in the language he was most fluent in - Gibberish - and was as surprised as anyone when a jet of red sparks shot out of it, hit the funny man in the doorway who sounded like a see-saw in desperate need of oiling 's wand, and sent it flying into then nearest tree - as far as Harry was concerned "Expelliarmus" meant "there's a Grindylow in the fridge." Voldemort ran after his wand, and James, before slamming the door yelled "Enjoy the grub! Do (not) visit again!"  
Voldemort, as he retrieved his squeaking and spluttering wand from the treetop it was sitting in which wasted no time in shooting out of his hand and hitting him in the eye, learned an important lesson that day - wands and Whomping willows don't mix!  
  
  
A/N This story isn't turning out as well as the others I've written. I'll probably continue it anyway, but I'd still really appreciate reviews. Oh, and nothing nasty, please.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. The Truth

Chapter Three.  
  
Voldemort trudged back toward Godric's Hollow, massaging his aching limbs and cursing the Potters. His wand, snapped almost completely in half with the exception of a few splinters holding the pieces together, was malfunctioning with every simple spell he tried as he tested the damage the Whomping Willow had done. So far he had tried to conjure up an umbrella to protect him from the lashing rain, and succeeded in burning his robes, tried lighting the tip of his wand to give him some light through the darkness and found himself being flung backward and into a bucketful of dragon dung, then tried simply pocketing it, which required no magic whatsoever and yet still found himself upside down, head buried in the mud and covered in what looked like heart-shaped boils, which weren't really helping his already low morale and quick temper.  
Right! he thought furiously, climbing out of the mud and getting to his feet, he'd tried being polite, well, polite-ish - he WAS still the most evil wizard in both the Muggle and Wizarding world, after all and he had reputation to keep - but still, at least he'd knocked. Well, he wasn't going to bother with all that rubbish now. He'd fling the door open, give a dramatic order to hand Harry over (something catchy, he thought, he still had that reputation to keep. Hmmm..... How about "Give me the infant, you yellow-bellied cowardly mongrels, or you shall perish miserably in the charge of defence, you dogs!" Nah, it didn't sound too original, Sir Cadogan, that idiotic knight in that painting from Hogwarts had thought of that one first. No, this had to be catchy and snappy, short and sweet. He had to make it sound like he was robbing a bank or something, just to give himself a more "I'm the baddy" sort of character), grab the baby and Disapparate before the kid's parents break any more of his teeth with Hagrid's cooking.   
He reached the front door and kicked it open.  
"Hand over the kid and none of your mindless pleading, woman!" he yelled making what he thought was a dramatic entrance, until he realised it was a very stupid entrance into a garden shed. Well, certainly none of the pitchforks, spades, buckets and plant-pots were going to hand anything over, let alone a baby which, quite unsurprisingly, was not there.  
Trying to keep his temper, he Disapparated and reappeared outside a more promising-looking door. Not wanting to appear as stupid as he felt when he barged into the shed, he grabbed the door handle and pushed the door forcefully, rather than kicking it. He also made his demand sound less demanding.  
"Give the child here, you! I'm going to take him off you!"   
Not quite as impressive as the previous one, pretty flimsy actually, but at least he got his message across, because a moment later, a baby was pressed very hurriedly into his bony arms. Totally taken aback by the obedience of the child's parents, he turned to look at the Potters, but instead he saw a girl of around seventeen, grabbing her coat off the coat-hanger.  
"Cor, thank goodness you're here," she said, zipping up her coat and grabbing her schoolbag. "That baby's a nightmare! Won't stop screaming when he isn't eating! I'm never baby-sitting here again, I can promise you that!"  
The babysitter ran out of number four Privet Drive, leaving Voldemort to be poked, pinched and kicked furiously by one-year-old Dudley Dursley. He had got the address wrong again.  
Ten minutes later, terribly bruised, battered and semi-deaf due to Dudley's screaming of every word his small vocabulary held ("Fathead!" "Get lost!" "Me want food!" "Grub!" "Stupid!" "I hate you!" and "Chip shop!") at the top of his lungs, Voldemort remembered what the babysitter had said about Dudley screaming when he wasn't eating. He locked Dudley in a biscuit barrel and Disapparated, very moody indeed.   
He Apparated in front of another likely-looking door, which he made sure had "Potter" carved on it, before planning his approach. He'd suffered too much humiliation tonight for him to go through any more if he could help it. Therefore, kicking the door, or even slamming it open while yelling something frightening and demanding seemed like a bad idea. He therefore slowly creaked the door open and said rather timidly, "Um, if..if it's not too much trouble for anyone, would you mind awfully if I killed Harry, only it's very important. That's if it doesn't put anyone out...?"  
He was interrupted however by a "You have reached the home of James, Lily and Harry Potter. We are unable to come to the door so unless you've got a message to leave after the tone, please push off, Voldie. We're out of rock cakes...."  
The door slammed in Voldemort's face and he found himself thrown backward into a overflowing frog pond. Right! He thought, enraged. This called for cunning, cunning that would pave him the path to Harry without facing his parents. He'd need every ounce of shrewdness he had to make this work....   
  
James Potter sat on the couch in his living room, tickling Harry and half-watching the telly. He was just reaching for the remote to turn it off when he heard his wife scream from the kitchen. Alarmed, James got to his feet and dashed into the kitchen.  
"What's the matter, Lil?" he inquired.  
"We're out of Marmite," she replied, indicating the empty Marmite jar she had next to the toast she had prepared.  
Thank goodness for that! James thought to himself. I can't stand that spread! Pity Lily and Harry do...  
"Tesco might still be open," Lily said thoughtfully, "It's Thursday night. They're always open late on Thursdays."  
"I'll come with you," said James immediately. "Voldie's been a bit jumpy tonight. I don't want him giving you any trouble...."  
"What about Harry?"  
James grinned. "He's more than a match for that idiot, you know that!"  
His wife grinned at him, then went to kiss Harry goodbye and she and James Disapparated to the nearest Tesco's supermarket.  
Extremely pleased with himself, Voldemort slunk out of his hiding place behind the bookcase in the hall and pulled out the full jar of Marmite he'd so skillfully nicked from the kitchen cupboard. He then drew his wand and advanced on Harry, who was chewing on the end of his own toy one. A thin, cruel smile twisted on Voldemort's white lips as he raised his wand and aimed it at Harry's heart. But just then.....  
"Not Harry! Please! Please not Harry! Have mercy! I'll do anything! Just not Harry!""  
"Stand aside, you silly girl, stand aside now..."  
Voldemort rolled his eyes and switched the telly off, blocking the last few seconds of a Halloween version of a Mcdonald's advert, which was trying to encourage people not to eat at a place called "Harry's" but at MacDonald's where they could get a free happy meal with their toy.... Voldermort turned to Harry again, raised his wand and began to say, "Av...." when Harry's wand issued a jet of warm milk at him again, which hit the unfortunate Dark Lord in the forehead, and the consequences were quite astounding...  
Voldemort began steaming and crumpling into a puddle, shrieking, "You horrid little boy1 I'm meeeeelting! Melting! Melting!"   
'course, the wicked witch of the west wanted to sue him for that - that was HER grand exit and it was copyright and he had no more right to pinch it than he did to nick a jar of Marmite.  
Harry stared at the black robes swimming in the steaming puddle that was once Voldemort and yawned. Stupid git. What's he making so much noise for at this time of night. SOME folk are trying to get some sleep, you know....  
Just then there was a roar from above and a blinding flash of bright green light shot straight at Harry. This was issued from huge motorbike, of course. It was Uncle Sirius on his motorbike. Well, he wasn't really Harry's uncle, but he might as well have been.   
"Hiya, Harry!" said Uncle Sirius jumping off his bike. "what do you think of my new headlight? Thought I'd make it green to make it more interesting! Where's your mum and dad?"  
Harry shrugged and gazed up at the motorbike, just as a slip of parchment fell off the seat and drifted down onto Harry's forehead.  
"Oh no!" cried Sirius as a series of blue sparks began shooting across Harry's forehead, as he hurriedly pulled the rude Howler-type reminder from the electric company to pay the leccy bill he'd so conveniently forgotten to pay for the past decade or so, but the damage was done. The stamp was glued to Harry's forehead and by the time Sirius could pull it off their slogan - a lightening-shaped spark of electricity - was imprinted on his forehead.   
"Yikes, I hope this comes off in the wash, or your mum'll be after my skin," said Sirius anxiously, inspecting the tattooed lightening bolt. "Mind you, it DOES kind of suit you, you know," he added, grinning.  
  
***  
  
"An' tha's how it really happened," said Hagrid, fourteen years later to a very confused Harry, who was sitting in his cabin, breaking his own teeth on Hagrid's rock cakes.   
"But, but what about all those stories, the books that were written about me?" Harry asked him. "I mean, I'm meant to be famous for defeating Voldemort, my mum's protection so he couldn't touch me , the curse that backfired..."  
"You Know Who made them stories up," Hagrid replied. "Wanted ter make his downfall look impressive. Di'n wan' the whole world ter know he was wiped of the face o' this earth for thirteen years 'cause of a toy wand, see."  
"So what I hear when I get near a Dementor's a fourteen-year-old MacDonald's advert, not my mum? And the blast of green light's just Sirius's bike? And my scar's nothing but a electricity bill?!!!!"  
Harry couldn't quite take all this in.   
"Yep," sighed Hagrid. "Any more questions?"  
"Yes," said Harry. "If your story's true, does that mean my mum and dad are still alive?"  
"Yep."  
"WHAT?!" Harry cried. "Well, where are they?"  
"Still in Tesco's" Harid said, shrugging. "You know what the check-out queue's like on a Thursday night!"  
  
A/N I know this is flimsy. Sorry. Keep those reviews coming, though.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
